


A Mouth Like A Prayer

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, F/F, Female Harry Potter, Female Tom Riddle, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Wicca
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 11:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17181725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: When Harry first saw the girls, naked and hair loose and dancing amongst one another like wild women, her eyes went wide with the untamed beauty of it, the raw power of it, and even though she'd never admit it her heart trembled in fear borne from her ignorance.These looked like wild beasts, faeries and demons from old legends and fairytales, their dance like an ancient offering. They looked like power, and there, amongst them danced Tamsin Riddle, both a part of the circle and apart from it.





	A Mouth Like A Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderful [Wolf_of_Lilacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs) for betaing °˖✧(⁰▿⁰)
> 
> Also, note that I am not an expert in Wicca, so if I get something wrong pls correct me :)

She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, stealing down the cold, dark corridors like a thief in the night. Her every footstep was placed carefully, her steps avoiding any weak, creaking wood with the experience of someone who did this regularly.

As she walked, she wondered if her paramour already waited for her or if she'd be late as she had been the last time they'd met like this, as if their love was a dirty secret. It made her burn with anger and resentment, the idea that she'd be strung from the ceiling and beaten blue and bloody for something so natural, so precious. Something so integral to every part of her that to separate it from her would be like the separation of her bones from the muscle and delicate veins that lined them.

She'd no longer be herself - no longer be _Harry_  - but instead some pasty, watered down version of herself that couldn't love like she did, couldn't give a part of herself as she did. And her lover, _oh_  her dearest love. How inconceivable a thought to ever imagine her submitting, whether it be to her teachers or a man or even Harry. Tom was a force of nature, she was a storm and a mountain. She could not be anything but what she was, or she wouldn't be Tom.

Harry reached the door - a tall, wooden separation between her and the woman she adored with her entire being. Her hand trembled as she reached out, as if this was the first time they'd run to the abandoned rooms of the school to be together and not the second, tenth, _hundredth_. The brass doorknob felt cool under her palm when she grasped it, and then she was standing in an open doorway.

Tom was there. She was on the floor, a thick cloak on the ground to protect from the cold, unforgiving stone. She was clothed, but so indecently and casually that it burned red into Harry's cheeks. She lounged like the queen she was, like the mistress she was, with casual grace that others could only attempt to imitate and even then only be skin to a child in their parent's clothing. Her pale, smooth skin was covered but only barely. The nightgown she wore was shockingly short and sheer, and Harry wondered where she'd gotten something so... _indecent_.

"Are you going to come in or will you just stand there gaping?" Tom asked, leaning back further until her back touched the cloak on which she sat. Her breasts made a loud, soft shape under the white of her gown, and even from here Harry could see the faint pink of her nipples, stiff and pointy from the cold of the room.

She wanted to _kiss_ -

Before she realised she'd stepped forward once, then again and again until she was standing above Tom. Her lover smirked at her, her eyes dark and the colour of the wine she's seen Father Dumbledore indulge in when he thought nobody was watching. She'd never seen a sight such as she'd seen Tom, something so utterly bewitching that she wondered how she could ever turn her mind away from the memory of watching her, touching her, loving her.

"Tom," she whispered, her voice somehow louder than Tom's had seemed in the quiet of the room, despite being a mere whisper to her confident speech. Her face felt warm, _hot_ , as she removed the cloak from her shoulders and let it fall. She too wore only a nightgown, but this one was like the ones all the other girls wore. It was cotton, pale pink that reached her ankles and her wrists and her neck. Next to her, Tom looked practically _naked_ -

She dropped. Her thighs bracketed Tom's legs as she slid up, up, until her mouth was at Tom's collarbone. She lay a kiss there, soft, just her lips pressing against surprisingly warm skin before she moved on to where she really wanted.

Tom kissed like a fire, consuming all that Harry was until she felt like a burned wreck. Her lips were shapely and full and soft, but the bite of her teeth on her tongue and her nails on Harry's hips were sharp, violent, aching. Tom may look soft and beautiful, a porcelain doll made human, but she was anything but. Her lover was more alike to a tigress than a kitten - to underestimate her was to surrender to stupidity. She surprised Harry with her strength - how was it that both of them were pushed into the same place with the same people, and yet Tom would turn out a master of herself where Harry was weak, easily controlled? Tom had managed to find power and seize it for herself, and it was only by luck that Harry found herself a part of it.

It was only by Tom's grace that she was allowed to touch true power.

She felt herself unwind, her tense muscles relaxing just as she touched her beloved. Loving Tom, Harry thought, was alike to finding God. She'd never felt such complete rapture as she had when Tom has slipped her fingers inside her body and _reached_. The first time they'd danced like this was only a year ago, but for Harry it felt like the start of her life.

What was it like before she'd found her religion? What had it felt like to exist in such a fundamentally lacking way? She'd breathed in useless parody, pretending to be a person when she was just another face in the crowd. And maybe she was still just another face, but she was a face that _Tom_  loved, a face that _Tom_  kissed, and didn't that make her something _other_  all by itself? She couldn't be ordinary, couldn't be a puppet with nothing but stuffing inside, because _Tom_  had looked at her and thought _yes, that one, she's the one I want_.

And Tom's fingers trailed across her skin, leaving a trail of fire behind it. She'd been burned only once, and it had been minor. Luckily she hadn't scarred, and the Matron had beat the importance of her gratefulness into her afterwards, but Harry still remembered the feeling vividly. Tom's touch was like that, like the flaring pain that felt both numb and sharp, that hurt even when there was nothing to see anymore. Sometimes, after they'd separated again Harry imagined Tom burning her and writhed in her bed at the thought of it. What would it be like to wear Tom's mark on her skin? What would it be like to _always_  belong to her, no matter who else hurt her or touched her or took her? No matter how long she had to abstain from Tom's presence or pretend to not _love_  her, _adore_  her as much as she did?

Her own fingers trailed across Tom's collarbone - a fascinating shape, bold and straight with dips that Harry had once drank water from. She licked them now, her legs pushing further apart so she could push her chest against the other woman's stomach. "Tom," she whispered again, her eyes closing, and she felt the slight shaking as her lover laughed.

"Oh Harry," she murmured, her mouth sharp and cruel, a knife against the throat of a rabbit. "You're always such a delight to fuck."

Harry pushed her tongue against the sharp edges of Tom's teeth, and wondered how hard she'd have to press to make herself bleed.

 

* * *

 

The first time - the very _first_  time Harry had loved Tom, Tom hadn't loved _her_. They'd slipped away to the back of the main building, and Harry had let Tom push her up against the brick wall. It was broad daylight, but the girls had a free period and would most likely be in the library or common rooms, and nobody came back here anyway. There weren't even any windows there. They would not be seen, but nevertheless Harry felt an odd thrill in the pit of her stomach at the thought of being discovered here, open like a sacrifice before the one she revered.

The brick was rough against her back, harsh and coarse even through her shirt, but Harry only had eyes for Tamsin Riddle. The other girl stood taller than her, smirking so very self-assured before she leant down and pushed her lips against Harry's. They were soft, glossy, and when they seperated Harry could taste strawberry on her lips. Her breath came fast, almost like she had been running, and her chest ached heavily. She wanted more.

So Harry took a hold of Riddle's shoulders and pushed her mouth up again. They kissed for longer this time, Riddle holding Harry's head in such a firm grasp that she didn't think she could push away even if she wanted.

She didn't want to. Her mouth opened hungrily and Riddle took the offering greedily, licking at every corner of her mouth like she was making it hers. Like she was making sure Harry could never again forget her presence there, inside her. She wanted so badly to keep Riddle there, to taste her and smell her and feel her whenever she could, to remember what it felt like to be held like she was owned by hands so strong and beautiful it made her hurt with lust.

Riddle moved back. There was little space between the two, their chests pressed so close together that Riddle's breasts were a weight against her own, but she didn't kiss Harry again. Instead she leaned down to lick, slow and sure and _hard_  at the little dip between her collarbones and then, before Harry could blink, she was on her knees.

"Oh," she gasped. Riddle looked perfect, but more than that she looked like she _wanted_  to be there, like she expected Harry to be _grateful_. Her smug smile curled at the edges like they held a secret. Harry felt the cool air on her skin, colder where Riddle had left a wet trail, and without any more prompting lifted her skirt with trembling fingers.

Riddle's smirk widened. She moved closer, her head pushing up underneath the fold of Harry's skirt and her breath suddenly very much _there_ , warm and achingly present against her pussy. She felt hot, her cunt immediately warmer and wetter as Riddle's presence remained ever-so-close to such a private part of her. She whined a little, maybe, but then Riddle kissed her thigh gently and Harry lifted her skirt higher just to be able to see what she would do next.

Riddle's long, beautiful fingers hooked into the waist of her panties, and she pulled them forward slowly until the front of her was practically naked. She was wet, so very wet, and she could see the evidence of it leaking out of her and onto the fabric of her underwear. Riddle laughed at the sight, running one finger slowly through the mess her arousal had left and spreading it forwards. "You're so _ready_ , honey," she laughed. Her voice was husky, amused, and Harry felt herself flushing with the shame of her eagerness.

Still, she couldn't help herself. Her cunt clenched eagerly in desire and she widened her stance some more, almost pushing herself forwards in her need. "Please," she whispered, but it didn't help her case any.

"Please?" Riddle repeated. Her tone was mocking, her fingers just as slow when they switched from trailing along Harry's panties to trailing along the opening of her pussy. She started at the back, slowly collecting the wetness and pushing it forwards until she reached Harry's clit. There she smeared it all over her sex until Harry felt like she was soaked. Like she would _kill_  for a firmer touch.

" _Please_ ," she gasped again, and to her mortification felt hot tears prickle against her eyes. She blinked fast, trying not to cry from the sheer desperation but her body felt like a leaf in a strong wind. She trembled, and perhaps Riddle took mercy on her or perhaps she just grew tired of teasing her, because she leaned forward and, in one swift move, pulled her panties down to her knees to lick a long stripe up her sex.

Her moan was loud, cutting through the still air like a knife, but Harry was too far gone to care. Her entire body felt sensitive, especially at the places where Riddle touched her. She couldn't look away from the sight of her long, pink tongue pushing at swollen nub of her clit, her lips sucking at the skin right at the junction of her crotch and thighs, her smile pressing up against Harry's cunt. She felt like she could stay like this forever and never tire, and yet at the same time was impatient for a climax she'd never experienced.

This wasn't the first time Riddle had kissed a girl. It wasn't the first time she'd touched and sucked and bitten, and Harry knew it - not only did she hear the rumours but it was the way Riddle held her by the back of her thighs, the way she pushed her nose onto the curls at Harry's crotch, the way she knew where to bite and where to lick that told her Riddle had done this before.

And _still_  Harry let her do whatever she wanted, give her the reigns and the means to ruin her if she wanted because Tamsin Riddle was such a _shape_  in her mind and head and heart that to touch her - just _once_  - had been a gift she'd always yearned for. It had been an experience for her - she'd never even touched _herself_  there, but Riddle had grabbed her by the wrist and asked, her eyes dark and hot and how was Harry supposed to say no to this girl? How was she supposed to say no when she wanted nothing more than to be spread out and _used_  by Riddle?

Her orgasm, when it finally came, left her shaking and limp. Riddle stood up, hair still perfect and her lipgloss smudged and she pressed her lips softly against Harry's open, gasping mouth. Her skirt needed nothing more than a cursory hand before she left, leaving Harry with her skirt still clutched to her stomach and her panties at her knees and Riddle still looked so _perfect_ -

Almost like she hadn't just eaten Harry's pussy.

Harry couldn't forget. She couldn't stop staring at the way Riddle's hair fell across her eyes, the way her mouth pursed when she was displeased, the way her shirt tightened across her bosom, the way she stepped like royalty and spoke like a pirate. She'd spent so many nights with her fingers inside herself after that day, aching and wanting and never quite _reaching_ , because the only person who could give her what she wanted was Riddle, and Riddle just didn't care.

And then she'd dragged Riddle into some abandoned classroom at the back of the school and kissed her like she was dying and pulled at her hair and said _please, please_ , and Riddle had smiled like a tiger, like a demon.

 _"Oh honey,"_  she'd told her, eyes dancing in unholy amusement. _"You need only ask."_

 

* * *

 

When Harry was eleven, her aunt had enough of her. She had always hated her, and though she hid it well the disgust in her eyes and the curl of her lip was never really hidden from Harry, only from the upstanding community. Uncle Vernon had barely tolerated her, but any and all dislike he'd held for her had always been for the sake of his wife and not because he hated Harry on some personal level.

Petunia, however, had made no secret of her loathing for her niece. She'd often loudly proclaimed how unladylike Harry was, how her hair was more akin to brambles than beautiful locks, how she'd had _that_  look about her - the look of a devil worshipper. The look of a _witch_.

Just like her mother.

So when she'd turned eleven aunt Petunia had not hesitated. Her meager possessions had been packed up and she'd been deposited, within three days, at the remote gates of Hogwarts Academy for Young Girls.

It was when she was thirteen that Harry finally learned what a witch really was, and it was an accident. Afterwards, the girls would teach her what the spices and herbs did, what the symbols meant, what the colours represented. They'd teach her what kind of power lay in her veins and her blood and her body, how to dance skyclad around a glowing fire and make it devotion, how to sing and kiss to make the energy in her heart turn into good luck and prosperity.

And in the dark, after hours when even their fellow witches were asleep, Tamsin Riddle would come to her with red in her eyes and on her lips and in her words and show Harry how to cast curses on her enemies, how to use hair and blood and effigy to make bad blood blacker and sweet breath sour.

But when Harry first saw the girls, naked and hair loose and dancing amongst one another like wild women, she froze. Her eyes went wide with the untamed beauty of it, the raw power of it, and even though she'd never admit it her heart trembled in fear borne from her ignorance. She'd had no idea what she was looking at, and it terrified her. She felt like she should recognise some of the faces, and perhaps distantly she noticed that the girl with the bright red hair must be Ginny and that only Astoria was _that_  tall, but these women looked nothing like the quiet, demure ladies she saw in her classes. They were _nothing_  like the women she knew.

These looked like wild beasts, faeries and demons from old legends and fairytales, their dance like an ancient offering. They laughed as their hair whipped around their faces in loose waterfalls and one by one neared the middle of the circle, only to step back from the small fire as if they'd forgotten it was even there and nearly been burnt for their carelessness.

They looked like _power_.

And there, amongst them danced Tamsin Riddle, both a part of the circle and apart from it. She danced as if she was possessed, her eyes bright with fierce joy and _excitement_ , and when their eyes met Harry felt a sharp ache of _want_ -

 _She wanted to be a part of this_.

 

* * *

 

Madam Umbridge was a hateful woman. She was round and ugly in a way that came from the inside, and had a disturbing propensity for garish pink. She'd never been married, but more than that Harry imagined she'd never _loved_  - not her mother or her father or anyone else. She taught them sewing, embroidery, but more than that she taught them to remain silent or suffer the consequences.

Tamsin was always the perfect angel in her lessons, except when she wasn't. She'd sit there demurely, needle pushing in and out without pause as Umbridge watched over them with an evil eye. But it was the way she _looked_  at Harry, the way her eyes went dark and her lips wetter, the way she crossed her legs and then uncrossed them, shifting to show Harry as much leg as she could get away with. It was the way she licked her lips and fluttered her eyelashes and moved her hands, the same hands that would one day make her come so hard she'd lose her mind that drove Harry insane.

She was always distracted in those lessons, and Umbridge _hated_  her, picked every possible moment to degrade every part of her from her ridiculously messy curls to her untucked shirt and her uneven socks. But, Harry wanted to shout, how could she expect her to look anywhere else? How could anyone expect her to watch the way Tamsin Riddle's neck stretched as she swallowed and not follow the flex of her skin over muscle? To watch her blink and not notice the small, imperceptibly darker shadows that flitted across her cheeks for just a second? To watch the dance of her hands across needles and thread and cloth, and not admire the shape and elegance of them?

It was impossible, unreasonable. Tamsin Riddle was a fascination, and no matter how Harry tried she could not look away from her magnificence. It was mostly alright in other classes - she usually sat so far ahead of Harry that all she could see was the back of her head or her hand when it was raised in the air. Umbridge's class was conducted in a circle, however, and Harry was not of strong enough will to stop her eyes from wandering up the shape of her legs until they reached the sliver of pale, smooth skin between the edge of Tamsin's stockings and the hem of her skirt.

So she watched Riddle (because she was still Riddle then - not yet Tamsin. Not yet _Tom_ ) and tried to forget what the young woman had looked like naked and bathed in moonlight. She tried not to remember the swell of her breasts, her black hair falling across white shoulders, her eyes flashing red in the light of flickering flame. Harry tried not to remember the way grin on her lips made her weak in the knees, the way her sharp teeth looked deadly and her feet lighter than air. She tried, most of all, not to remember _desire_.

And she failed.

Afterwards Harry took her time collecting her things. Her fingers were sore from the poised position they'd been in for the past hour and her hair was escaping it's braid and sticking to sweaty skin. She was _frustrated_. She needed something and didn't know quite what it was. She wanted to explore something, to _know_  things, but she didn't know exactly where to find them. Her hands moved with a surprising roughness as she put away her shoddy work and looked around the empty room.

Madam Umbridge was always the first to leave,and the other girls didn't delay either - it was time for lunch, they'd have rushed to the dining hall as quickly as possible. She was alone, for the first time in a long while Harry was _truly_  alone, and for a minute she just _noticed_  the quiet, the midday birds chirping in sunlight, the quiet breeze making green, green leaves on dark branches sway like they were dancing. It calmed her down somewhat, tension she hadn't even realised was there draining from her until she could feel only the ray of warmth across her face and chest, and hear her own breathing in her ears like a lullaby.

She turned swiftly on the balls of her feet and rushed through the door, only to freeze as she stepped through the doorway. The hallway was darker, dimmer than the sunlit classroom had been and for a second Harry couldn't believe what her eyes told her, but even as her sight adjusted to the shadows the image didn't change. There Tamsin Riddle stood, leaning against the opposite wall as if she had been waiting for Harry, a slightly curious eyebrow raised at her continuous silence.

Suddenly Harry felt very aware of how she must look - her face red, her hair in disarray and her shirt wrinkled. It was as if all the complaints Madam Umbridge had ever bestowed upon her were coming back like a flood, making her so very conscious of her state. How messy she must look next to Riddle, who as always was perfectly poised. _Her_  hair was straight, flat, no misbehaving tendrils floating up against the will of gravity or into her face. _Her_  clothes were perfectly pressed, her tie perfectly knotted, her skirt perfectly pleated.

And perhaps Harry was a little jealous, a little envious. There was a small knot in her chest, and her body felt like it was humming with electricity - like she wanted to run away as fast as she could. But she didn't. She remained where she was, staring, _waiting_.

An amused smile stretched Riddle's lips. "I saw you," she said. Her hands were still, one resting on the shape of her hip and the other thanking free. "Yesterday," she clarified when Harry remained silent. "At night, when you were supposed to be in bed."

The mention of a bed on Riddle's lips made her oddly warm. "Just as you should have been," she replied regardless, straightening up. However, even with her shoulders back and her spine straight, she was dismayed to notice she was a full head shorter than Riddle. The other girl seemed to notice the same, and her smile morphed into a smirk.

“Feisty, aren't we,” she said softly. Her eyes seemed darker, her lips redder. "I always like mine like that."

“ _What_ -” Harry started, but then Riddle clicked her tongue loudly and she fell silent almost helplessly.

There was a beat, and then Riddle pushed up off the wall and stepped closer. "I just had to make sure, you see," she told Harry. "But you won't tell anyone. There's nothing to worry about here."

Harry swallowed. "I won't tell anyone... about yesterday?" Riddle didn't answer, so Harry stepped closer. "What was it?" she whispered. There was a strange pull under her skin, as if her blood was magnetic and trying to push out of her skin. Her mind flashed back to last night - another world, it had felt like. Someplace where people like Snape and Umbridge and McGonagall were unimportant, their words the quiet buzzing of a fly.

It had felt like a dream, like a strange vision. Harry had woken up that morning and wondered if it had even been real, but this moment right here proved that it wasn't.

Tamsin Riddle smiled at her, and the way she bent her head made Harry feel smaller than ever. "You know what it was, Harriet," she said, and she said Harry's name like it was a brand new flavour, a taste she'd never experienced before. "I'm sure you're clever enough to put two and two together." And then she paused, her Harry tilting to one side as she ran her eyes over Harry, head to toes and back again slowly. Her eyes were beautiful, Harry thought, but more than that they felt like a predator's gaze.

"Of course, I might be willing to _induct_  you into our little group," Riddle murmured. It felt like Harry was standing in the edge of a precipice, like she could stake just an inch the wrong way and fall horribly to her end. She felt a little afraid, confusingly, but then Riddle smiled and it seemed like a foolish thought that had waltzed through her mind.

"I'll see you around, _Harriet_ ," Riddle said, and left her standing in the empty hallway. She could hear the prim click of Riddle's footsteps as she got further and further away, and then Harry was alone again.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't long after that day when Harry was woken up in the middle of the night by a firm hand on her shoulder. Her eyes opened in a snap, and it took a moment for her to register that it wasn't yet morning before her eyes adjusted to the dark. Above her, a pale face with dark eyebrows came into view.

She stared stupidly for a second, trying to think on why _Tamsin Riddle_  would be leaning over her bed, but then the other girl's eyes wandered down the length of her and Harry flushed when she realised her nightgown had ridden up her thighs.

She was practically _naked_ -

She yelped and pulled the blankets over her in a flurry, her eyes wide and her face red as a tomato. Riddle's laughed low in her throat, her voice husky, and then straightened up.

"There's no need to be shy, love," she teased, her hand on her hip. "You look absolutely _edible_."

Harry didn't reply, only pulled her blankets up to her chest and stared back at Riddle. The girl's eyes darkened, and she leaned closer again until Harry's face was level with her chest. "Well?" Riddle urged. "Aren't you interested in what girls like me _do_  in the middle of the night?"

Harry fiddled with the edge of her covers. "You mean what I saw the other day?" She asked. Riddle hummed and cocked her head to the side.

"Sure, Potter," she drawled. "Don't even try to deny it, I saw the hunger in your eyes, the _want_." She took hold of Harry's fingers, peeling each away from her hold as she spoke. "I know desire like that, honey. I've seen it a million times, _felt_  it in my own chest."

She paused. Her hand wrapped around Harry's, the skin warm and soft. Harry's blanket fell to pool around her waist again, exposing the prominent shape of her chest through her thin nightgown. The air felt suddenly colder without the thin blanket, but more than that Harry felt exposed. How much could Riddle's wandering eyes see? Could they see where her neck pushed into the shape of her torso? Could she see the shape of her collarbone, the bone stretching to reach at her shoulders, a firm line before the swell of her chest? Could she see her _nipples_ -

Breath escaped her in a rush, and she brought her arm up to cross over her chest. Contrary to what she wanted it only made Riddle smirk harder, her eyes trailing down and lingering on every curve and edge of her almost _hungrily_. She didn't know why it bothered her so much. They were both girls after all, had each seen many other girls in various states of undress. Why did this, Riddle's eyes on her body, matter so much?

Why did this make Harry feel so _warm_  between her legs?

A hand stretched before her. "Come on then," Riddle urged, a little impatient now. Harry thought of what it might feel like to dance freely amongst others like her, how intoxicating it would be to finally have _power_  - the ability to do what _she_  wanted and not what others wanted from her. She wondered what cold night air might feel like on bare skin, and she curled her fingers around Riddle's.

 

* * *

 

When this had become normal?

Tom sat next to her, eyes focused firmly on the page before her. She was relaxed, her head bent over the book she was reading, but every time Harry looked over her lips quirked up in a salacious grin. A grin that said, ' _do you like what you see?_ ' A grin that said, ' _I'll ruin you for anyone else._ '

She flushed and looked away. Her eyes wouldn't focus on the words, but even if she _could_  see the letters she doubted she'd have been able to understand them. Under the table, Tom's fingers trailed ever-so-slowly across her naked thigh, and dipped into the crease between her legs like she was sampling whipped cream.

A part of her wanted to get up and leave. Madam McGonagall was _right there_ , her eyes sharp and looking out for any sort of misbehaviour. If she discovered the way Tom touched her Harry may as well just _die_. But the rest of her, the largest part, wanted Tom to take her apart piece by piece in front of everyone and laugh in their shocked faces.

She wanted Tom to _own_  her.

Her breath came faster. She tried to seem unaffected, but Tom's fingers pushed along the edge of her panties and her nails scratched at the soft, warm skin there and Harry felt strangely sensitive - like she was ticklish there, except that it made her _wet_ -

She bit her lip and her legs spread without her permission. Tom laughed, so quietly Harry barely realised she'd even heard it, and her index finger settled right over her clit. She rubbed at it - slow, small circles that were so soft that Harry wanted nothing more than to push up into the touch.

Her thighs trembled with the effort of keeping herself still. She held onto the edge of the table like it was a lifeline, and then Tom tutted softly at her.

It was like breaking out of a trance. Her eyes snapped to her lover's, who looked at her with amusement in her eyes. Tom leaned closer, her shoulders pushing into Harry's until her mouth was at Harry's ear.

"Don't you hurt yourself, love," she whispered. Her other hand came up to tap at her lips, and Harry realised she'd been biting them so hard they hurt. She let them go, feeling with her tongue for any bite marks in the soft flesh, and Tom groaned low in her throat. As if involuntarily, her thumb pushed hard into where her cunt would open and she almost cried out, her eyes widening in shock.

" _Tom_ ," she whispered, her voice hoarse. The other girl hummed, settling back into her chair as her fingers pulled away. Harry opened her mouth in protest, but not a word came out before Tom was slipping her hand under the flimsy material separating their skin.

" _Tom_ ," she whined again. Her legs were spreading wider, and she was impossibly glad for the row of desks right before their own. Tom didn't react to her pleading, only pushed one finger into the wetness and spread it up, down, coating her swollen clit with it and then rubbing at it again. Her fingers moved slowly and steadily, never speeding or slowing down even as her body heated, as she reached to grasp at Tom's forearm to keep her in place.

Her lips were wet with constant licking, and when she dared look she found Tom's eyes glued to the shine of them. Her lover's fingers moved then, dipping just inside her body before moving back to her clit, again and again until all Harry knew was that she wanted to _come_ -

But Tom wouldn't let her. The hour crawled past at a snail's pace, every second a small eternity. It was hell keeping her voice low when all she wanted to do was moan into Tom's mouth, but the other girl looked at her with such _pleasure_. It made something small and warm come into being inside her chest, something that made her want to _please_  Tom.

She sighed softly as Tom reached down for her pussy again, and when the tips of Tom's fingers slipped inside she pushed her hips forward in a slow, smooth slide. The angle was a little awkward, but Tom was inside her and it felt so _good_. Her muscles clenched around the intrusion uncontrollably, but Tom took the offering and pushed deeper, bending her fingers this way and that and rubbing at the wet warmth of her body.

Her body trembled in the edge for what had to be hours, wanting so badly to fall towards orgasm except that Tom knew exactly when to still, when to push away and let her clench around air before going again and again until she wanted to cry. She kept trying to catch Tom's eyes, the few moments she could bare to look up without her arousal and desperation showing on her face for all to see. And when finally Tom _did_  look at her, all she could say was ' _please_ ,' quietly and emphatically.

Tom smiled at her, something oddly soft in the way her eyelids lowered just that tiny bit, something almost _fond_  in the curl of her lip that Harry could not possibly explore at that moment. But she got what she wanted, finally - her lover pushed two fingers into her cunt and rubbed at her clit, and then Harry was coming and pushing her face into Tom's shoulder.

Everything was so _wet_ , her panties soaked with her pleasure and fluid all over Tom's hand. Her lover didn't seem to mind - she extracted her fingers from Harry's pussy slowly, making sure to rub at her as she pulled her hand away. Harry winced, her body infinitely more sensitive in the aftermath of her orgasm and pressed a soft moan into the shoulder of Tom's blouse.

Looking down at her, Tom smirked and raised a finger to her mouth. The skin of her fingers was shiny with Harry's arousal and Tom just rubbed it along her lower lip, never breaking eye-contact. Harry flushed, wanting to tell her to stop but at the same time enthralled by the image of Tom licking gently at her own fingers, cleaning them of Harry's orgasm. She settled for kissing Tom's shoulder discreetly and turning back to her book.

 

* * *

 

Girls like Tom - _bastards_  - were married off quietly to third and fourth siblings if they were lucky, and kept around like glorified maids if they weren't. They weren't talked about, never let too far out of sight and out of hand, kept like a dirty secret that everyone could see but pretended not to.

Harry could see the knowledge of her status burn lines into Tom's face. The anger, the resentment - it grew, ever stronger and ever more bitter. As her last year began to move into its second half, Harry could see the rage in Tom's eyes every time she let herself think too long.

And yet, underneath - a crippling fear of being forgotten, of being _nothing_. Harry understood it, to an extent. After this she'd probably face the same future as Tom - being married off by the Dursleys for money or being kept around as a slave for her mother's family to torment. She feared going back to that place, the quiet neighborhood filled with whispers and malevolent stares.

She feared being stuffed into her cupboard again, forgotten except for when there was a stain to wipe up.

And yet, as she sat and watched Tom read, Harry came to another realisation. _She feared leaving Tom more_.

It was a startling understanding, much to big for such a quiet, unassuming afternoon in the library, but as Harry tried to control the trembling of her hands she thought ' _oh, I love her, I adore her_ ,' and it felt like something deep inside her had changed. She felt less unsure and yet confused all the same, like she knew herself but didn't know what to do about it any more than she knew half a second ago.

Because while she would give up everything for Tom, she was still afraid. Tom was not a kind person, if she knew she had _this_  much of a hold on Harry what stopped her from ruining her as she pleased?

Would Harry care enough stop her?

Her eyes wandered to Tom, sitting elegantly, her eyelashes long and casting flickering shadows on her cheeks. There was a slight frown creasing her brow, almost indiscernible except if you looked at her for too long. Her fingers drummed a soundless rhythm on the hard cover of her book as her eyes moved across the pages, her mouth still except for the occasional murmured word.

She was so very beautiful, and the realisation of that beauty cut at something in Harry like it was a sharp knife held against the veins of her heart. She wanted to run, suddenly - the calming warmth of the fire suddenly hot, the room constraining, and Tom's presence a reminder of how stupid and foolish she really was. She wanted to get up and walk away, never look back, forget everything that ever happened between her and Tom so that she would never have to live with the knowledge for what she'd lost. How could she possibly go back to her life after this, after spending quiet evenings listening to Tom's gentle breathing? How could she forget this and not hurt every day, to live her life as she was _meant_  to after she'd tasted freedom and desire and adoration, adulation, _worship_?

And then Tom looked up at her, and Harry realised she'd been gasping in her panic. Her eyes were brown, beautifully rich, but in the firelight they looked like hellfire.

They seemed scarlet, and for a second Harry let herself wonder if Tom wasn't just the devil in female form, come to corrupt her and take her to its evil abode. But then the moment passed and Tom's lip curled up fondly at the edge, and when she turned back to her volume so did Harry.

 

* * *

 

She knew her face was flushed bright red, her skin hot with lust and a strange sort of shyness.

She had done everything with Tom - seen all of her and let her see all of Harry in turn - but somehow this seemed so much more intimate. Her thighs quivered and she sighed softly at the sensation of curious fingers on her skin. Tom's fingers drew slow lines up the insides of her thighs, moving from round muscle to the flatter planes leading to her crotch. She touched every part of her like it was a new experience, like she wanted to imprint the very shape of Harry into her mind.

It made her melt. She shifted a little, moving her head so that she could press her lips against Tom's jaw, and felt her lover's skin shift as she smiled. And yet they lay in complete silence as Tom traced the edges of her cunt, from the top down into a round v and back up so slowly Harry wondered if she was really moving at all. She was warm against Harry's back, her breathing soft compared to Harry's, and when she put her hand in Tom's hair her lover's strong thumbs pushed hard into the crease between her thighs.

She gasped. She wasn't sure whether it hurt or felt good, but it made her push closer to Tom and that was good enough. Tom moved slowly against her bones, tracing the lines both along them and against them. She moved higher, along the line to the outside of her thighs but Harry moaned in protest and she laughed into her hair.

"Quiet," Tom whispered. "The Matron ought to be doing her rounds about now." She pressed a kind, almost amused kiss into her hair. "Imagine if she found you all spread out on my lap like this."

It was a sick thrill. They couldn't afford to be caught, and if they _were_  caught Harry knew the consequences would be dire. And yet-

Harry let herself imagine what it would be like, for someone to walk in and see Tom's hands between her indecently spread thighs. She wondered what it might feel like to know they'd never again be able to curl up closer in the calm of their secrecy, to have everyone know that Tom was hers and that she was Tom's.

She pushed her hips up eagerly and Tom, for once feeling merciful, touched her clit. Her hands trembled and then were steady as she touched Harry, her index finger moving in small circles and then away to pinch at her thighs. They'd be red by the end, she knew. Perhaps even purple. Her mind wandered to when the bruises had littered her skin so low she was afraid they'd be seen below the hem of her skirt.

She remembered walking and feeling the twinges every time her thighs brushed against each other in her movement. She remembered sitting next to Tom and letting her fondle her bruises in the middle of class, and touching them during nights alone as she imagined Tom bending over her.

Her palms, warm and dry but for slick fingertips slid up to Harry's belly, her waist, and up her shirt to her chest. Harry gasped, pleased, and Tom bent her neck to bite sharply at her nape.

"You're like a thunderstorm, Harry," she whispered, and for days afterwards Harry could not forget the sharpness of the greed in her voice.

 

* * *

 

Tom had always been prone to losing her temper. Harry could vividly recall once, when Headmaster Snape had made an offhand comment about how nobody would marry Tom. "You're not _nearly_  feminine enough," he'd scoffed. "You need to put some effort in if you want a second look, Miss Riddle."

It had absolutely enraged Tom. She'd burned even then, with Snape in the room and eyeing her with a smug look in his eye, but she'd held her tongue and glared at him until he'd left. Then she'd let Harry hear it, screamed at her and paced the room like a caged animal, like she was spoiling for a fight. Harry had woken up that morning and nearly not recognised Tom, except that she had memorised the slope of that neck, the stature of those shoulders, the sway of those hips like they were her religion.

And yet still she froze where she stood, her eyes wide as she watched her secret lover walk down the hall as if it were any other day, and it wasn't. It wasn't, because Tom had cut all of her hair off.

Where once her straight black hair hung down to her hips in a sleek curtain, it was now shorn short, as near to the scalp as Harry imagined Tom could have gotten it. It looked like she'd hacked at them with a knife, they looked so uneven and crude, and yet Tom still walked as if she were perfect in every single way.

Harry couldn't find it in herself to think otherwise. Her Tom, her love, having chopped off her hair like she was spitting in Snape's face, was more majestic than she'd ever been before, and looking at her and her little smirk and the glance she threw at Harry, it felt like she was aching. It was _arousing_ , and she wanted nothing more than to kiss her way down that exposed nape and across those shoulders, leave bruised blue skin where her back met her waist, rub tongue and teeth across her pale breasts until they were swollen and red.

She wanted to touch, and for a minute she stared, flushing a brighter red until finally Tom looked away and walked on.

That night she waited until the building lay silent and sleeping before she slipped out of her room, a cloak wrapped over her shoulders to stave off the cold. She walked silently down the halls until she reached a room she hadn't often been to - Tom preferred to meet her in abandoned classrooms nobody would ever visit. But her lover would be here tonight, trying to distract herself from her rage and impatience, so this was where Harry would come to see her.

Candlelight lit the small bedroom, the light flickering as she entered and closed the door behind her. Tom didn't move from where she sat at her desk even though she _must_  have heard her. A book lay open before her, the volume thick and probably immensely boring, but Harry knew Tom wasn't reading.

She moved closer. Tom's head was tilted, her nape bare and white and smooth, and Harry couldn't help but press a soft kiss into the skin there. Tom breathed in sharply but didn't move, her shoulders loosening just a touch. Harry smiled into Tom's neck, slid her fingers down her shoulders and arms until they rested on Tom's biceps.

Her camisole was thin, so much of her skin bare that Harry wondered if Tom had expected Harry to come to her. She liked to think she had.

Her lips wandered down, her tongue licking when she encountered the top of Tom's spine. The bump at the top was largest, smooth and hard under pale skin, and for a minute Harry wanted to kiss Tom's very _bones_. She wanted to reach inside Tom and touch her skull, run her hands across her shoulder blades and curl up inside her ribcage. She wanted to crawl inside Tom and press fervent kisses across her hipbones and the underside of her jaw, so that Tom could never forget her presence even if she tried, could never wash away the memory of her touch inside her body where nobody else would ever touch again.

Instead she bit, hard, leaving the marks of her teeth like a temporary brand. She had never felt this audacious before, never let herself leave marks on Tom's body as if her lover was actually _hers_  beyond her own mind. But Tom groaned and stretched, and when her head lolled back her eyes were dark and daring, her teeth bared in promise. Her heart beat harder at their white gleam, their sharpness. She leaned down, and ran her tongue across the tips of Tom's teeth.

The hands at her shoulders were unforgiving, nails biting into her flesh so hard she wondered if they'd draw blood. It stung, but Harry mind was hazy with Tom, with the taste of her tongue tangling with her own, with the heavy scent of incense in her nose. Their kiss was filthy, wet, Tom breathing into her and Harry taking all she gave.

Her own hands wandered, her hands slipping down Tom's camisole and spreading across the shape of her breasts. She cupped them, then changed her mind and twisted Tom's nipples between her index finger and thumb. Tom gasped into her and spread her legs, her arms wrapping around Harry's neck and pushing her tongue deeper.

She wanted to laugh, wanted to tease, but even though she was the one running her fingers across bare skin she felt lost. Tom's skin was soft, warmer than one would expect from her cold eyes and stony face. When Tom curled her teeth around her lip she raked blunt nails from her belly up and hoped they'd leave bright red marks under the cloth.

And then Tom was letting go and pushing her back. She turned her chair, leaning back into it and spreading her legs invitingly. Harry dropped to her knees without a word from either of them, her mouth going straight for the soft flesh of Tom's thigh.

She kissed, sucked and bit until the skin blushed red and purple. She ran her hands up Tom's legs and turned to the other, aiming higher this time. Tom's scent hung heavy in Harry's nose, her arousal so overwhelming it made Harry forget there was anything else in the world. She moved her camisole up and found Tom naked underneath, wet and open.

Harry moaned, loud amongst the heavy panting, and then pushed her tongue right up against soft, wet skin.

Tom was so very hot, so _alive_  against Harry's mouth. She paused, her lust heavy and her scent musky, and when Tom grabbed Harry's hair to pull sharply she couldn't stop her hands from wandering down into her own underwear. She pushed her panties only half-way down her thighs, too preoccupied and desperate to wait longer and pushed her fingers into herself as she licked Tom to orgasm.

Tom sighed, her hips pushing up into Harry's face in little circles. He pushed Harry's face her against the space between her thighs, her fingers gripping at Harry's hair so tight she wondered if Tom hadn't pulled some out. She reached up, her other hand and moving from the strong flex of Tom's thigh to push into her cunt. Her mouth moved up to her lover's clit as she reached in, fingers pressing every way into skin and muscle and exploring the ridges along Tom's very insides. She played with her, making Tom whine until she'd bit her lips bloody trying to keep silent, until her legs shook from the need to orgasm, until she could no longer keep her eyes open to see Harry's mouth pleasuring her.

Afterwards, she lay with her head on Tom's chest. She should return to her own room, she knew - they couldn't afford to be found here like this. But she was so tired and Tom was stroking gentle fingers down her bare arm, softer than she usually was.

It felt like a small eternity of silence before Tom moved, just a little.

"Harry," she whispered. Her voice was softer than usual, unexpectedly _vulnerable_. It pushed at something in her chest so hard her head wanted to snap up to look Tom in the eyes except that her lover's fingers tightened sharply on her bicep. So instead she breathed out slowly, feeling oddly shaken and nervous.

"Tom?" she replied, equally quietly. Her voice sounded tinny in her own ears, but Tom didn't seem to notice her apprehension, or if she had she didn't care.

Tom’s hands gentled again, smoothing over crescent marks engraved into her skin. "Come away with me." It was a simple request, and yet was it really? Where would they go? How? What about their families, their lives, their futures? When would they leave, how would they travel, how would they run from the gates that surrounded the grounds and kept them in like pixies desperate for escape?

She remained silent. Tom tensed underneath her as she waited, her breathing speeding up just slightly until she was practically vibrating under Harry, and then she tried to get up. Harry turned, wrapped her arms around Tom's shoulders and kissed the skin under Tom's jaw gently.

It didn't matter. "I'd go anywhere with you," she whispered into Tom's body, like it was a secret even from herself. Her thumbs stroked softly along the cooling skin of Tom's upper arms and she felt her lover press a soft kiss into the mess of her hair.

"I know you're afraid," she said to Harry, and she seemed so sure of herself, so confident that Harry felt safer than she'd ever felt before. "Trust me," Tom told her. "I'll take care of you."

And Harry believed her.

 

* * *

 

It was dark, cool - slightly too cold for the middle of spring. Harry sat patiently and watched Tom's fingers move, watched her tie greasy black hair to rust with confidence. She'd done this before.

Her mind wandered to other people, students and guests and teachers. She remembered them becoming ill, rumours of madness and possessions following quick disappearances, and thought of Tom sitting in the dark in a circle drawn into black, moist soil.

She watched. Tom pulled out a small bottle barely the size of Harry's hand, and bent her head as she murmured words to herself. Harry sat too far away to hear, so instead she focused on way Tom's short hair shadowed her eyes from the moon, how her legs were bared to the cold, how her lips moved in words Harry could not discern. She watched Tom stuff the small, tube-like bulbs into her bottle and remembered those hands on her own just a few nights ago, telling her how to pierce a curse through a name she hated.

They sat like that for hours. Tom seemed lost, her mind somewhere far away, and for a second Harry felt cheated from the sight of Tom's eyes. They would undoubtedly be full of hatred, and Harry shivered at the thought of ever glimpsing such loathing, such _passion_  even when it wasn't aimed at her.

It felt interminable. At some point Harry realise it had begun to rain lightly, that it had been raining for a while without her realising. The ground was wet when she pressed her hands to it and the smell of earth clogged her nostrils until she though ' _oh, this is what it might be like to be buried alive_.'

It was only come dawn that Harry dared rise, cross the border, touch night-cold hands to Tom's. The precipitation had made Tom's nightclothes stick to her skin so closely that she was no longer clothed but naked in the night, painted in translucent white. Her hair, short and dark, clung to her scalp and her hands seemed bone-white against the black of the earth, and Harry imagined she looked like the queen of an otherworld. Like a demon stepping on earth with the visage of an angel, for wasn't Lucifer an angel too - the loveliest of all of them - before he fell?

Her body was in sharp relief, the light of the moon illuminating every inch of her so that Harry could see the dip in her collarbone, the crease under her shoulder, the underside of her breasts and the shadow of her bellybutton. Her clothes stuck to her until Harry could see the part of her thighs all the way to her cunt, the shape of her knees, and she wanted to drop to her knees and lick every bit of water off Tom's skin. She wanted to worship her, right where she had spelled misfortune on another human being, and she wanted Tom to _hurt_  her so badly she wondered how she hadn't fallen forward in desperation yet.

But she didn't do any of that. They walked in silence back to their rooms, and when they parted in the halls Tom smiled at her and touched her face. Her hands were gentle as they moved wayward hair out of her face but her eyes were fierce, possessive. She looked at Harry like she was a prize, her most valuable treasure, like she would rip her apart with her bare hands before she ever let her leave. Harry's breath caught in her throat, and it was only when Tom kissed the soft skin there that it escaped her ribcage once more.

"Goodnight, Harriet," Tom murmured. The sun would creep over the horizon in another hour, but Harry maintained her silence and watched mutely as Tom walked away.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes she looked at people and found them suddenly _ugly_.

This was different from the ways that she found Umbridge ugly (like her very personality was a slimy toad) or the way she detested Headmaster Snape (like he was an unpleasant smell in the shape of a person).

No, sometimes she looked at people she barely knew, people she'd looked at day after day and people she knew everyday, and she suddenly couldn't stand the sight of them. She found her mind constantly busy, engaged with the idea of being _away_. Her classmates' problems seemed childish in comparison to the plans brewing in her mind - in _Tom's_  mind.

She was terrified. Every day Snape grew weaker and Umbridge sicker, and every day their last day at the academy grew nearer. Harry fretted constantly, wondering how they'd travel, how they'd eat, how they'd sleep. Tom was confident. She'd spend the evenings holding her hand and pulling her head down to rest against her chest.

"Don't worry your pretty little head," she murmured soothingly, and her hands were so kind and cruel that, for a while, Harry would forget everything but the way they glided across her back. She'd lose herself in Tom's lips, in her warmth, in hearing her breath echo in the night, and anything other than the sheer need she felt would overcome smaller, less important thoughts.

But she saw the way Tom talked to other girls - especially those with rich parents. She saw how they bowed to her, how Tom always had money even though her father did not give it to her, how confident she was in her own power. How confident she was for a bastard girl left here to be forgotten. "There's an associate," she told Harry, "in Inverness." She explained how he'd put them up, how all they had to do was _get_  there.

She was somehow _looser_  like this, Harry thought, like an eagle finally left untied, uncaged, after years of captivity. She seemed dangerous, and though Harry wondered about this 'associate', she found herself fascinated with the way Tom bloomed even more. Her lover became louder, stood straighter and watched patiently as the world flocked to her majesty. She seemed to become more and more impervious to black gazes and twisted mouths, and when Umbridge tripped over her own feet in the middle of class she did nothing to hide her cruel titters.

She had always been popular, a woman amongst little girls, a captivating presence that could do not wrong, but now she glowed with it. She bathed in attention, and when she came unashamedly into her bedroom in the evening she smiled at Harry like the very sight of her was pleasing.

When the days turned warmer she began to urge Harry to get ready. Any day now, she'd whisper, and it felt like a conspiracy - a secret so immense she felt like the weight of it was as obvious as stolen sweets bulging from a child's pockets. Every look from Snape was suspicious, every midnight tryst a risk, but she was barrelling towards the end now. There was no stopping the train.

And then one afternoon whilst they sat amongst their peers, Astoria sidled up to them and pushed herself between their closeness.

"I don't know what you're planning," she whispered, her eyes fixed determinedly on her hands, "but I think you ought to hurry with it."

Tom froze, and something terrible dropped into the pit of Harry's stomach.

"What do you mean!" Tom demanded, harsher than she'd no doubt intended. It sounded more like an order than a question.

Astoria didn't even flinch. "I heard something rather interesting on my way here," she said calmly. Harry watched her hands, watched them tremble and twist into each other like glistening snakes in a pit. "The headmaster was quite interested in knowing that you were planning on leaving the academy before graduation."

There was a beat of silence, then - "Who?" Tom asked, her voice cold.

Astoria seemed to hesitate for a second, and Harry felt the urge to reach over and silence her. But her own hands refused to move, her tongue heavy in her mouth, and Tom's stony expression convinced Astoria quicker than Harry could gather herself.

"Parkinson," she whispered. Tom stood, and without pause or shame grabbed Harry's wrist to drag her up too.

"The big rock," she said, just quiet enough to not be heard by the other girls who stared, shocked. "Twenty minutes."

And then she left.

 

* * *

 

Twenty turned into twenty-five, then thirty. Harry stood alone, the forest around her silent except for the noises of wilderness and life - small rustling in the undergrowth and wind in the trees. It was turning dark as the sun lowered and clouds gathered, and within minutes the gold-green world of trees turned into a ghostly shade of itself.

She didn't want to, and yet she couldn't help the doubts that crept into her mind. Would Tom even come? Her silence seemed less an attempt at keeping her secrets and more a damning sign of her uncertainty, the kisses she'd laid on Harry's skin a way to distract her and not a celebratory promise of freedom. She felt foolish, standing there alone as the sun dropped from its noon-high peak. How long would she wait here for her lover to arrive before she finally came to her senses?

And she felt _bad_ , for imagining Tom returning quietly to her room, for imagining Tom relaxed and reading with nary a thought spared for Harry, but she couldn't help it. Tom had always been so cold, so aloof, and though Harry had always thought Tom was just _like that_  she now feared otherwise. But no matter how doubts raged through her mind she couldn't move. Her legs remained frozen as she leaned onto the large rock that marked their meeting place because even though a small part of her trembled with fear of being broken and humiliated, a larger part of her wanted to let Tom do whatever she wished, so long as she'd _look_  at her.

Minutes ticked by and Harry became colder and colder. She regretted not wearing a jacket, but she couldn't find it in herself to dig through her backpack for it now. ' _I should have put it somewhere near the top_ ,' she told herself.

It didn't matter.

The wind grew louder. It was spring, nearly summer, and yet Harry felt as if it might be autumn instead. Perhaps it was her utter stillness, she mused. Perhaps if she moved, paced or jumped in place or even just shifted her position she'd be warmer. But she didn't want to waste the energy.

Finally she became tired, disheartened. 20 minutes, Tom had said. It was surely closer to an hour. She dug through the little side pocket in her backpack, remembering that she'd stuffed her watch in there in a hurry, when she heard rushing footsteps-

There, through the trees, a shape she'd recognise anywhere. Tom ran towards her, not stopping as she passed but to hook her arm around Harry's waist and turn her around. "Run," she said, her voice high and breathy but not yet a gasp. Harry didn't need to look around or check - she ran.

They arrived at the gates, high reaching black metal shapes shaped in spires at the top. They'd need to climb over. Harry turned to look questioningly at Tom only to find her bending a little, her hands stapled together.

"Go on then," she urged. Harry took off her backpack, swung it over in one smooth toss, and stepped into Tom's hands. As she pushed herself up and set her feet into the spaces at the top, she turned and wondered if Tom was looking up her skirt. She wondered how much she could see, and then reprimanded herself for letting her thoughts wander so when they were clearly in a hurry.

She leaned down to grab onto Tom. Her knees bent suspiciously close to the sharp tops of the gate, but she managed to help Tom clamber up to the top and then they both jumped down, hands grabbing onto the straps of their bags just as the shouting behind them came closer.

Just as they disappeared behind the nearest cluster of trees Harry swore she heard the rattling of the heavy metal keys. They didn't stop.

A while later they slowed down, and without a word Tom took off her coat and pulled it over Harry's shoulders. She wore a jumper underneath, dark blue and warm-looking, and Harry realised with a start that she wasn't wearing her uniform. In fact she wasn't even wearing a skirt. She wondered how she hadn't noticed before, but she couldn't help appreciate the shape of Tom's legs _now_.

Her calming heart sped up again. Tom was looking at her with a smirk that said she knew exactly what Harry was thinking. "I knew you'd forget your jacket," she said. Her voice was husky. Her cheeks were red with exertion.

Harry swallowed. She wanted to say she was glad to be here, or that they should hurry along in case anybody still followed them. She wanted to ask her if Tom would finally reveal where they were going.

"Why did you take so long?" she asked instead.

Tom's hands were hard on her shoulders and then her neck, and her eyes so flat Harry wondered if she'd kiss her or choke her. She'd not he able to guess either way.

"Don't you trust me?" she whispered. Harry remembered a night, quiet and warm, where it had not been a question but an order.

She smiled, and spoke to herself as much as she did to Tom in that moment.

"I do."

An unassuming man in a car picked them up another half hours walk away, grumbling about how " _the lady took her sweet time_." Tom fussed silently over Harry for a few long minutes, and then became visibly irritated and sharply hissed " _Shut up_." The man fell silent.

A few miles away and they drove into a city. Tom breathed easier, a small smile alighting on her lips, and Harry looked out at all the people running about. She thought of the Dursleys, about Tom's father, about how they'd never have to see their own personal demons ever again. Tom's nails were sharp on the back of her hand, and her grip felt like belonging.

 

* * *

 

 

The sunset painted her red and orange and yellow until she glowed like an ageless, inhuman entity of the sun. Tom traced her fingers along the soft of her skin, her fingertips registering every tiny bump, every curve of muscle and every tickle of hair like it was the gold Harry was bathed in. She traced the secret lines of her body, and then wrote confessions so quiet not even Harry heard them. Her lover's green, green eyes did not move from her face - she could feel their weight on the arch of her own brow, her eyelids as they dipped low, the arch of her straight nose and the bow of her thin lips.

She could feel the warmth of the afternoon fading like a mayfly, gentle warmth turning into the cool of a shadow, and then cooler still. The hair on her bare arms rose until they stood straight, and as the sky grew darker she moved closer to Harry's comforting heat. The shadows grew along the underside of her eyes and the side of her nose, bringing the bow of her lips into sharp relief, and as gold faded to blues and purples Tom reached to entangle Harry's fingers with her own.

They were shorter than hers, smaller than hers, rounder than hers. They were softer than hers and Tom loved them and all the gentle touch of them.

When it grew cooler she curled up close to Harry, her nose pushing into the hair behind Harry's ear. She breathed her in and exhaled her from her mouth, pushed her thumb against her pulse and her palm against her chest. Harry's blood and heart thumped through her like she was merely a conduit for her life, for her vitality, and it felt like becoming one.

When the sky darkened to black she looked up and followed, lazily, the lines of stars in her sight. She wondered at the secrets written in them, and when she felt lips against her shoulder she moved her head to the side and let Harry love her. She let Harry worship her, and revelled in her absolute fidelity.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Zolita's _Holy_


End file.
